totally could. It would be great. And in the summer, the place really picks up. Plenty of guys with absolutely no ambition of becoming actors. You could go incognito.”
Augie’s was filling up, the energy rising. Phoebe could feel the tequila in the margarita starting to loosen her up. It would be nice to be somewhere. Put down roots, start over, far away from the too-bright sun of Los Angeles. Savannah had always said Ivy House was magical. Maybe it just needed a little love to bring the magic back.
“I could do it,” Phoebe said, emboldened by the liquor. “I can fix up Ivy House and live there. Why not? I’m twenty-eight years old, I have some money in the bank. I don’t have to be anywhere I don’t want to be.”
Lynn threw her head back and laughed. “You go girl.”
They clinked their glasses. “And here’s to dating people who have no idea who we are,” Lynn said.
“Here, here. No real names and no real professions tonight!” Phoebe agreed, already feeling the smile starting to curve up her lips.
Chapter 10
Phoebe woke up with a throbbing headache, cursing the curtains that had been left open. Sunlight, bright and harsh, streamed into her room. The margaritas. She and Lynn had had more than a few, and then they had walked back to the Osprey Arms, after collecting more than a few phone numbers, all of which they had dumped in the trash can. Lynn had crashed on the couch in Phoebe’s room, and sometime in the morning, while Phoebe was still sleeping, had left to get ready for work.
She’d left a note, scrawled on the pad from the desk: “ Take two and call me later. Lynn .” A packet of headache medicine was on top of the note, and Phoebe decided that she must have just been subjected to some sort of doctor humor.
She had dreamed of Ivy House last night. It had been a full, richly layered dream, startlingly vivid to her, fueled no doubt by the alcohol. But it had seemed so real, and in it, Ivy House had been perfect. Gleaming wood floors, comfortable couches, color, and light. And there had been laughter drifting through the house. This time, there had been no Savannah. In fact, everything about the dream had been modern, very present day. It had felt right.
Phoebe looked at herself in the mirror. She felt much better now and she sent a silent shout of thanks to Lynn and her medicine. Time to decide what to wear. She tried to open the windows to see what the temperature was, but the paint was so thick that they were effectively sealed shut. She tried applying some force, but that only made her head hurt, so she flopped down in the little wing chair that looked out over the docks and picked up her phone.
She checked the weather first. Another perfect spring day here on the East Coast. Jean capris, she decided, and her pink-and-white-striped Oxford shirt. A pair of canvas sneakers. She still had some cleaning to do at the house, so she’d pull her hair back in a ponytail. And she had a nice lightweight fleece in case it was cooler up there.
That decided, she glanced through her emails. She’d set an alert to go off whenever her name or Savannah’s came up on the Internet. The phone had been buzzing all morning, as more papers picked up on the sad state of Savannah’s financial affairs. Her phone buzzed with texts and calls, none of which she answered. They were from friends and colleagues asking if she was OK. It would have been nice, except she could sense the avid curiosity. They were all wondering what it felt like to be poor.
Her phone rang at that moment. She almost didn’t answer it, but the temptation was too much, and she glanced down to see who it was.
“Dean,” she said, feeling a smile form on her face. Dean was one of her closest friends, the kind of guy who was always there for her. They had met in college when Phoebe had signed on to design the sets for the theater department’s production of “Anything Goes.” Dean had been in the chorus and they’d formed an instant
Augie’s was filling up, the energy rising. Phoebe could feel the tequila in the margarita starting to loosen her up. It would be nice to be somewhere. Put down roots, start over, far away from the too-bright sun of Los Angeles. Savannah had always said Ivy House was magical. Maybe it just needed a little love to bring the magic back.
“I could do it,” Phoebe said, emboldened by the liquor. “I can fix up Ivy House and live there. Why not? I’m twenty-eight years old, I have some money in the bank. I don’t have to be anywhere I don’t want to be.”
Lynn threw her head back and laughed. “You go girl.”
They clinked their glasses. “And here’s to dating people who have no idea who we are,” Lynn said.
“Here, here. No real names and no real professions tonight!” Phoebe agreed, already feeling the smile starting to curve up her lips.
Chapter 10
Phoebe woke up with a throbbing headache, cursing the curtains that had been left open. Sunlight, bright and harsh, streamed into her room. The margaritas. She and Lynn had had more than a few, and then they had walked back to the Osprey Arms, after collecting more than a few phone numbers, all of which they had dumped in the trash can. Lynn had crashed on the couch in Phoebe’s room, and sometime in the morning, while Phoebe was still sleeping, had left to get ready for work.
She’d left a note, scrawled on the pad from the desk: “ Take two and call me later. Lynn .” A packet of headache medicine was on top of the note, and Phoebe decided that she must have just been subjected to some sort of doctor humor.
She had dreamed of Ivy House last night. It had been a full, richly layered dream, startlingly vivid to her, fueled no doubt by the alcohol. But it had seemed so real, and in it, Ivy House had been perfect. Gleaming wood floors, comfortable couches, color, and light. And there had been laughter drifting through the house. This time, there had been no Savannah. In fact, everything about the dream had been modern, very present day. It had felt right.
Phoebe looked at herself in the mirror. She felt much better now and she sent a silent shout of thanks to Lynn and her medicine. Time to decide what to wear. She tried to open the windows to see what the temperature was, but the paint was so thick that they were effectively sealed shut. She tried applying some force, but that only made her head hurt, so she flopped down in the little wing chair that looked out over the docks and picked up her phone.
She checked the weather first. Another perfect spring day here on the East Coast. Jean capris, she decided, and her pink-and-white-striped Oxford shirt. A pair of canvas sneakers. She still had some cleaning to do at the house, so she’d pull her hair back in a ponytail. And she had a nice lightweight fleece in case it was cooler up there.
That decided, she glanced through her emails. She’d set an alert to go off whenever her name or Savannah’s came up on the Internet. The phone had been buzzing all morning, as more papers picked up on the sad state of Savannah’s financial affairs. Her phone buzzed with texts and calls, none of which she answered. They were from friends and colleagues asking if she was OK. It would have been nice, except she could sense the avid curiosity. They were all wondering what it felt like to be poor.
Her phone rang at that moment. She almost didn’t answer it, but the temptation was too much, and she glanced down to see who it was.
“Dean,” she said, feeling a smile form on her face. Dean was one of her closest friends, the kind of guy who was always there for her. They had met in college when Phoebe had signed on to design the sets for the theater department’s production of “Anything Goes.” Dean had been in the chorus and they’d formed an instant
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